Poems by Larry Alan Smith

This song I sing

This song I sing
To you – for you,
And then I wait to hear
Your voice.

The sound of a mighty river pushing to a distant place.

I hope for but one sign
That you have heard my song.

This poem serves as the text for the fourth of six songs in my Songs of Time, Patience and Longing (2005). Robert Barefield, baritone and Kelly Horsted, piano.

A serious face

A serious face,
A beautiful face,
But it is a face that is
Unaccustomed to smiling.

For a moment,
I saw that smile,
And I knew she was an angel,
An angel sent to
Make the day more bearable,
To make the day more peaceful.

My only regret is that the day will end,
And my angel will be no more.

Arkansas backroads

Arkansas backroads –
This is the true America!
Rolling hills and winding roads
That lead to earlier times.

Sons of the blood,
Wrestling with their destinies.
Daughters of the earth,
Fertile, verdant,
Humanity within their wombs.

Sing with great joy,
For in this world of such sorrow,
There are still moments
When reality fades
Into the gentle
Contours of the land.

Thrown together by fate

Thrown together by fate,
Individual artists,
Suspending their personal lives
For weeks or months,
Hope to find a path
To greater expression.

It is the loneliness
Of the isolation
That sparks new friendships,
That makes a meal
In front of the fire
A time to celebrate
The day’s work,
Or a time to forget
The day’s disappointments.

A winter of creativity.

Trapped by a hostile climate,
We are prisoners of rooms
In which new ideas struggle to emerge.

All the while,
The oppressive landscape
Watches us
And sneers at our efforts.

Cloudless sky

Cloudless sky,
Blue.

Longing for some time alone.
Wanting to hold you in my arms.

Bright sunshine,
Golden.

Won’t you come inside?
I want to share this gift.

The gift of a glorious spring day.

This poem serves as the text for the fifth of six songs in my Songs of Time, Patience and Longing (2005). Robert Barefield, baritone and Kelly Horsted, piano.

Gentle, peaceful and profound

Gentle, peaceful and profound,
Traits to be admired,
Traits that cultivate the human spirit
And shape man’s capacity to love.

Pity the poor soul
Who cannot comprehend
The importance of these words.

Each passing day
Brings a greater need
For reflection,
For the world is spinning out of control,
And civility may have become
A thing of the past.

An old church sits on my street

An old church sits on my street.
Its bells have marked the hour
For centuries.

A cross rises over the entrance,
And an announcement board
Has been attached to the door.

A faded piece of paper
Details the schedule
For services
That never take place.

Man’s faith appears to be weaker
Than the stones of this church.

A coffee shop at closing

A coffee shop at closing,
Lonely and deserted,
The workers clean and sort
Through remnants of the day now ending.

Only a few of us remain,
Waiting to be told
That we must leave
This quiet place.

Morning papers,
Scattered
In piles.
Meaningless headlines.

Clean tables,
Ready for the new day,
Food,
Stored
For yet another lunch hour.

How many nights
Begin and end
In the lonely confines
Of a coffee shop?

She sat at the top of the stairs

She sat at the top of the stairs,
Listening to music,
But too afraid
(Or perhaps too shy)
To descend.
That was long ago.
She is dead now.

Ascending the stairs,
Footsteps on the landing,
We arrive at her room.
Sensing her presence,
My chest tightens.
She is there,
And it takes my breath away.

A soul,
Defying time and death
Lingers in that room,
And her voice remains clear and precise.

Two friends chat

Two friends chat.
One sips a beer.
The other looks away.

How many times have they met for lunch?
How many lies have been exchanged?

Old habits are hard to break.

Old woman, old man

Old woman, old man.
He reads, she sleeps.
She stirs, he notices.
The years bring comfort,
Comfort and complete trust.

They don’t speak.
They don’t need to speak.
Side by side
They do what they need to do,
Knowing what they have
And who they are.

Old woman, old man.
Now he is also asleep.